o tell him of a better world than this. He gave his life to his
country.

Although there is the busy note of preparation for the sailing of the
fleet, there are some who remember that it is Sunday, and who find time
to worship. The church-bells toll the hour. You tuck your pants into
your boots, and pick your way along the slippery, slimy streets. There
are a few ladies who brave the mud, wearing boots suited to the walking.
Boots which have not been blacked for a fortnight are just as shiny as
those cleaned but an hour ago. At the door of the church you do as
everybody else does,--take a chip and scrape off the mud.

Half of the congregation are from the army and navy. Commodore Foote is
there, a devout worshipper. Before coming to church he visited each
gunboat of his fleet, called the crews together, read to them his
general orders, that no unnecessary work should be done on the Sabbath,
and enjoining upon the commanders the duty of having worship, and of
maintaining a high moral character before the men.

Let us on Monday accept the kind invitation of Commodore Foote, and go
on board the Benton, his flag-ship, and make an inspection of the
strange-looking craft. It is unlike anything you ever saw at Boston or
New York. It is like a great box on a raft. The sides are inclined, made
of stout oak timbers and plated with iron. You enter through a porthole,
where you may lay your hand upon the iron lips of a great gun, which
throws a ball nine inches in diameter. There are fourteen guns, with
stout oaken carriages. The men are moving about, exercising the
guns,--going through the motions of loading and firing. How clean the
floor! It is as white as soap and sand can make it. You must not spit
tobacco-juice here, if you do, the courteous officer will say you are
violating the rules. In the centre of the boat, down beneath the
gun-deck in the hull, are the engines and the boilers, partly protected
from any shot which may happen to come in at a porthole, or which may
tear through the sides,--through the iron and the oak. Near the centre
is the wheel. The top of the box, or the _casemate_, as it is called, is
of oak timbers, and forms the upper deck. The pilot-house is on this
upper deck, forward of the centre. In shape it is like a tunnel turned
down. It is plated with thick iron. There, in the hour of battle, the
pilot will be, peeping out through narrow holes, his hands grasping the
wheel and steering the vessel.

Its